Drags You Under
by Melfice
Summary: Dean gets caught in a tornado in Kansas. Dean/Cas. SLASH. Wing!fic.


**Drags You Under**

_by Melfice_

Ghosts, ghouls, demons, banshees, fucking Lucifer himself – and it's the forces of nature that knock him down.

There's grass beneath his feet, rain against his back in cold, heavy drops. There's a storm brewing over his head like a omen, dark and harsh and it stretches across the field without a visible end. It's over the treetops at the edge, over the stretch of road at his back, and he's tearing through the field like there are hell hounds at his feet – but, fuck, he knows how to deal with those too and, really, it's almost preferable at this point.

The shack at the edge of the field he's been directing towards turns out to be an abandoned farmhouse, turns out to be the only place he reaches before it _really_ starts to rain, and he can't kick the door down fast enough. He's barely onto dusty floors when the wind picks up, starts sending leaves and grass and fucking everything into the door, and he's shutting it in an instant.

A fallen bookshelf is his next target and he pushes it against the door, spreading more dust and debris, but it has to help, right?

The foyer has two windows and Dean is practically tripping over himself to get away from them when he hears the low rumble, the grinding sound that feels far away and right at his heels all at the same time.

Fucking _tornadoes_. As if he needed a reason to hate Kansas.

He makes it to the hallway when windows start shattering, when the walls start shaking and it sounds like there's a train rolling through the living room. There are a thousand messages running through his head: get to a room without windows, get in a bathtub, get in a doorway or under a desk – or wait, was that for earthquakes? Do the same techniques work for all natural disasters?

He hears the front door get torn off its hinges, hears the scraping and colliding of furniture and _everything_ as it smashes fucking _everywhere_.

His blood freezes in his veins when he hears the creak and the loud, horrifying scrape of the wooden roof separating from the frame of the house. It tears off over his head and he watches it without being able to look away, as the boards and nails rip off and fly into the sky with his last chance at hiding.

It's too loud, too fucking loud to hear anything, so he doesn't hear a sound when Cas appears in the room – he's just suddenly there in front of Dean, awful trench coat flapping wildly in the wind, hair mussed and eyes too calm.

Cas doesn't move, doesn't fly them away. He places both hands on Dean's shoulders, like he's about to explain the meaning of life to him or ask him if he left the oven on, like they've got all the time in the world and they're not in the middle of a god damned _tornado_-

The words, the commands, on Dean's tongue get caught in his throat when he sees half of the kitchen table careening through the hallway at him out of the corner of his eye.

It hits nothing near his left shoulder and splinters into twenty pieces, and then it's gone – sucked up above the rafters like the roof.

The structure aches and creaks and sways and it breaks around them, all debris and splinters and glass. It falls apart underneath the winds and the pressure and it swirls around them with the gusts, is pulled into the whirlwind coursing around them.

It all shatters around them, but it doesn't move him. It collides harmlessly into the space inches from Dean, into the nothing that's there.

There's nothing there and he sees nothing, but he _feels_ it.

He feels the wall around them, feels the wind coursing through the holes, feels the brush of something unnatural and alien against his skin. There's nothing there, absolutely nothing at all, but his left arm feels like it's on fire, feels like it's burning up, and Castiel's eyes are _glowing_.

It's difficult to breath and his ears are ringing, his eyes too distracted by the intensity of blue in Castiel's to watch the tornado above them.

There are shadows in the wind, shadows that look like feathers, and Dean's heart is in his throat, heavy and choking. Everything in his mind is telling him not to, but he ignores all the warnings and he reaches one hand out and traces a line along something that _is. Not. There. _

It's brief and violent. A jolt of heat and cold and it leaves the tips of his fingers tingling. It aches and burns and he can't pull himself away, can't stop.

His ears are ringing, the tornado like a train exploding through the hallway, and over it all he still somehow hears the ragged, broken sound that comes out of Castiel's mouth when his fingers curl around absolutely nothing in the air beside them.

It's an ache that courses through his whole body, scalds him like he's holding a flame, and there is something crackling around them like electricity. It snaps and cracks and Castiel is staring through him, like he can't possibly see anymore, his mouth parted slightly and his fingers digging tightly into Dean's shoulders.

The seconds it takes the tornado to cross the farmhouse pass like hours, but when it leaves it takes everything but the frame of the house, and Dean's fingers touch air – only empty air.

Castiel is breathing like he has to, like he suddenly needs oxygen, and he's staring at his hands on Dean's shoulders, staring like he can't handle looking at anything else. His breathing is ragged, eyes open impossibly wide, like he's trying to think and process what has happened, that _hasn't_ happened, that _can't happen_-

And Dean's fingers tingle with the memory of vibrations from feathers he can't touch.


End file.
